


The Question Is, What Choice?

by fishingclocks



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Rogue One AU, Star Wars AU, but a lot of comfort too!, love in a time of war and ewoks, this one can fit a lotta pain in it boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 17:10:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17584919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishingclocks/pseuds/fishingclocks
Summary: Ed’s first thought is that they’ve come to kill him.“Is that him?” says one of the newcomers, blaster now pointed at Ed, supporting his theory.“It has to be,” says the other, and sets her blaster to stun.Ed’s second thought is that no, they haven’t come to kill him—but for some reason he feels he’s going to wish they had.





	The Question Is, What Choice?

**Author's Note:**

> she returneth from the grave!!!!
> 
> this is a long, long, _long_ belated secret santa gift for the fantastic CJB!!!!!!! i hope you like it dear <33333333

Ed knows this isn’t where he dies, but that doesn’t stop him from wondering if that’s actually a bad thing. The walls of the prison transport are gray—or black; it’s too hard to tell anymore—and he keeps his eyes locked onto them. It’s either that, or the blanched, bleached shell of his guards’ armor, or the black void where their eyes should be, or the empty seat across from him—a reminder of the manacles cutting into his wrists, and the fact that escape is impossible.

 

Ed knows.

 

He’s tried.

 

The foreseeable future is muted tones of gray and despair, and in the end, Ed thinks that may be what he’s missed the most.

 

Just a little bit of color.

 

The _un_ foreseeable future isn’t looking too promising either. Sure he’ll get out at some point—if not because his sentence runs out then because he was raised by a woman who saw that as a favor, and always collects her debts: but imprisonment tends to bring out a sort of clarity. Ed understands the trend. If the Empire has snatched you up and tucked you away into one of its many little corners of space devoted to crushing souls, you were living with a little too much freedom, and a bit too loose of an interpretation of the law. (That, or you just said the wrong thing with the wrong people listening.)

 

Being suddenly and apathetically stripped of that freedom would be enough to make anyone do a little thinking.

 

When Ed had been stuffed into his little cell all those months ago, he’d been no exception.

 

The funny thing—Ed had realized that he hadn’t ever really had freedom to begin with.

 

He’d always been a slave to the life the kriffing Force shoved his way—what difference did it make if the cold metal at his hands were manacles or a blaster?

 

The reason he misses the colors so much, Ed finds, is because he’d never had them to begin with.

 

All that had been lost to him long before ending up in an Empire prison cell had even been a possibility.

 

Static bursts from a guard’s comm, doors disappear in a bang and a puff of smoke, and blaster bolts cut through pristine helmets that fall to the floor with plasticine thuds.

 

Ed’s first thought is that they’ve come to kill him.

 

“Is that him?” says one of the newcomers, blaster now pointed at Ed, supporting his theory.

 

“It has to be,” says the other, and sets her blaster to stun.

 

Ed’s second thought is that no, they haven’t come to kill him—but for some reason he feels he’s going to wish they had.

 

* * *

 

“Forgery of Imperial documents,” says the man who has probably called for the forgery of more Imperial documents than Ed has read in his life, so even though he’s in a room full of people who are looking at him like he’s the bantha shit stuck to the bottom of their shoe, Ed’s very tempted to check out right then and there.

 

“Possession of stolen property.” Ed almost snorts. They hadn’t read that one off when they’d brought him in—almost made it ambiguous as to who did the stealing. Between dramatic pauses, Ed takes the opportunity to scan his surroundings. Countless people from countless worlds—most from the Outer Rim, and _all_ looking like they haven’t worked a day in their lives.

 

Ah. So the Rebel Alliance are the ones who’d wanted him so terribly.

 

“Aggravated assault, and resisting arrest.”

 

“And aggravatedly assaulting the dicks trying to arrest me,” Ed adds because he just can’t help himself.

 

He’s met by a displeased murmur rippling through the crowd of dignitaries, and a sneer from the man reading him the list of his crimes like Ed hadn’t been the one committing them.

 

“May I remind you,” says the man, “of what a precarious situation you find yourself in, Mr. (banana)? Or should I say, Mr. Elric?” Ed schools his expression into a blank stare, but just beneath the surface his mind is reeling. How do they know? Why would they _want_ to? Not even the Imperials had managed to dredge that name out of the mud… “But again, I seem to need to clarify. Isn’t the Corellian tradition of name-inheritance so funny… Mr. Hohenheim?”

 

And Ed suddenly can’t control his expression any longer, as he realizes _exactly_ why the Rebel Alliance wants him.

 

“I haven’t had any contact with my father since I was six years old,” he hisses. “You want information on him, you’re looking in the wrong place.”

 

The sneering man sneers some more and says, “Oh, we know all about your traitor of a father, Edward Hohenheim. A _famed_ designer and architect of Imperial instruments of death—it’s not him we’re interested in.

 

A voice to Ed’s left says, “When were you last in contact with Izumi Curtis?”

 

Ed turns to meet this new interrogator in the eye—a tactic he’d learned and perfected during his time in the Empire’s warm embrace, made slightly more difficult by the fact that he’s chained to a chair. The man’s black hair is floppy, his eyes are dark and unreadable, and the ever-so-slightly lighter circles underneath them hint at sleepless nights. Ed’s also incredibly annoyed at his particular line of questioning right from the start, so he suspects they’ll get along fabulously.

 

“It’s hard to remember,” Ed says, his eyes narrowing. “You see, it’s been so many _years.”_

 

“This is going nowhere,” mumbles a disgruntled figure in a flowing blue cape.

 

Ed’s new interrogator regards them for a moment, and continues. “Earlier today, an Imperial pilot defected—claimed he was carrying information that could change the face of the rebellion. He took that information straight to Izumi Curtis.”

 

“And you’re not quite thrilled by that, I assume,” Ed says, carefully watching the dark-eyed man for any hint of annoyance. Beside a light eye-twitch, there is none.

 

Ed is supremely disappointed.

 

“We believe you can help us,” says the woman at the head of the table, cloaked in white and solemnity. “We believe you can get us close to Izumi Curtis, and help us find out what she knows.”

 

“I already told you I don’t know where she is! We lost contact seven years ago—I couldn’t possibly find her new hiding spot if I tried.”

 

“Captain Mustang has already acquired that information,” says the woman in white, inclining her head to the man—Ed catalogues that information away—“all that we need now is someone close to her; someone we know she trusts.”

 

Ed hangs his head, and can’t help but laugh at the flimsiness of this plan. “So kriffing desperate. You’re all rebels aren’t you? Why don’t you just waltz up to her and _ask_?”

 

The woman frowns—funny, Ed thought she already _had_ been. “This alliance disapproves of Izumi’s methods—she is a radical. She would, if you remember, have us enter into an all-out war with the Empire—a conflict we at this point have no assurance of winning.”

 

Ah, yes. How Ed hadn’t missed these delicious politics.

 

And how Ed hadn’t missed flimsy plans that were more likely to get him killed than to succeed.

 

Ed smiles. “What if I say no?”

 

“You’ll go back to your cell in Wobani, safe and sound,” says Captain Mustang, in a tone that manages to sound superior despite having no inflection whatsoever. “Though I doubt you’ll be there long, once the Imperials are informed of your true identity.”

 

On the list of things and people that Ed hates, Captain Mustang is now very high.

 

“We’re offering you a clean slate,” says the woman. “You do this, and you’ll be free.”

 

Ed pauses.

 

Ed sighs.

 

“When do I leave?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh dear, since when did we change the rules about recruiting children?” says a robot with a death wish.

 

Ed’s being good.

 

Ed’s being _extremely_ good.

 

Aside from lifting a blaster off of some green pilot—and it’s Ed’s philosophy that if you’re that out of touch with your blaster, you don’t deserve to have it in the first place—Ed is being a damn _saint_ . He was told to go into the ship, so into the ship he has gone, and for his trouble he’s greeted by some rude droid who also happens to be kriffing _massive_.

 

Ed grits his teeth and says, “My name is Ed Elric, and I’m not. Some kid.”

 

“My name is OL-31R,” says the droid, “though most of you soft-shells call me Olivier, and I know; I just don’t like you, and comments about your height are marked as an efficient irritant in your file.”

 

Great. So he’s about to be trapped in a ship with psycho-robot and Mc Stick-Up-His-Ass.

 

“Olivier,” says the good Captain himself, finally getting himself over to his own damn ship. “Are we ready for takeoff?”

 

“Negative,” says OL-31R. “It seems that we still have unnecessary cargo aboard.” She pokes at Ed with her foot.

 

Mustang sighs, and turns from the droid to the door control panel. “Don’t mind her—she’s a reprogrammed Imperial drone—stationed on Hoth. We’re not sure if it was the reprogramming or the sub-zero temperatures that scrambled her circuits.

 

“And yet I am the sanest one on the ship,” says the droid. “You know he’s a _criminal_ , yes? What’s to stop him from simply blowing our brains out while we aren’t looking?”

 

“I won’t exactly be _arming_ him, now will I?” says Mustang. Ed slides his blaster further out of view.

 

“You may want to take his blaster, then,” says OL-31R, the filthy snitch.

 

“What?” starts Mustang, turning to look at Ed with an expression of surprise, yet also _no_ surprise. He moves to take the blaster away—Ed clutches it even tighter. “Where did you get that?”

 

“I found it,” says Ed.

 

“On a dead body, no doubt,” says OL-31R.

 

“Give it here.”

 

“Absolutely not!” says Ed. “You said Izumi is in Jeddha, right? You been there recently? It’s a kriffing war zone!”

 

“Yes, that’s what I’m saying, Roy—take it away!”

 

“Olivier, shut it,” says Mustang—huh, Roy; the name fits, somehow. Turning back to Ed, Mustang doesn’t try to take it again, but he doesn’t seem ready to stop arguing yet. “You’re just trying to get us in to see Izumi Curtis—you won’t need to participate in any war.”

 

“Be hard to help if I’m dead.”

 

Mustang— _Roy_ —sighs. Ed gets the feeling he does that a lot. He turns away, and says, “Olivier, initiate takeoff.”

 

* * *

 

Later, when they’re in hyperspace, and the stars fly by like blaster bolts, Ed says, “Oliver’s right,” and Roy snorts at the name. “What’s to stop me from just killing you off once we reach Jeddha?”

 

Roy smiles, more a contortion of the face than an expression of joy, and says, “I suppose we’ll just have to find out, won’t we?”

 

This is the first time in Ed’s life that he has been granted implicit trust, and the weight of that burden makes him sick.

 

Or maybe it’s just the shitty driving. Kriff that robot.

 

* * *

 

Jeddha is a wasteland. Of course, it’s no Tatooine—every criminal worth their salt has been to Tatooine at some point, and Ed is no exception—but the planet is scorched and swept clean.

 

Ed may not have been schooled in Galactic History since he was six years old, but he knows his _pirate’s_ history, and despite his indignance at someone’s home planet being reduced to this empty husk, he understands why. Aside from Illum—which was so revered by the Jedi that even though their Order is long extinct, the Imperials leave it be for fear of the Force’s wrath—Jeddha is one of the only planets in the galaxy with naturally occurring kaiburr crystals.

 

Jeddha has undergone centuries of plunderers and mercenaries, and it bears the scars of its past.

 

The surface below is pock-marked from all of the forced extraction of kaiburr crystals. As they land, it appears that the surface is also crawling with more Imperial transports than Ed _ever_ saw in prison on Wobani.

 

“This,” Ed says, “is _such_ a bad idea. You guys are technically a military, right—you keep records? I want it put on the record that this is a _terrible_ idea.”

 

“The Imperials won’t be any bother if we keep our heads down,” says Mustang, already moving about the cabin like he’s doing very important mission things. “They’re here for kaiburr crystals, not for Curtis.”

 

“And by extension, us,” is the next part of the sentence that Ed guesses Roy left out just because he thinks he can work around Ed using mind games. Well _kriff_ that.

 

“So what are we going to do?” Ed says, following close behind Roy as he presses buttons, and then frowns at them when they make sad noises in response. “Just waltz right into the Holy City—find a stormtrooper and ask where we can find an Izumi Curtis? In case you didn’t remember, _I’m_ a wanted fugitive, and _you’re_ a Rebel captain!”

 

Finally, one of the buttons does what it was supposed to do, and a small compartment opens up, spitting out various pieces of clothing.

 

Mustang is smiling—a real one this time, that tugs at the little lines at the corners of his eyes, and makes Ed’s heart tighten for some indiscernible and frankly horrifying reason—and says, “Well, I guess we’ll both just have to trust each other.”

 

Ed stiffens for a minute; then scowls. “What stupid plan did you have in mind?”

 

* * *

 

“Have I said before that this is a terrible plan?” says Ed. He tugs at the dark head-covering, and curses when it catches on the reflective goggles.

 

Roy ignores him, though he does throw a withering look Ed’s way—the effect slightly lost thanks to the ancient Republic hat covering that floppy hair, and the civilian clothes that looks so out of place after his Rebel fatigues, and are just _slightly_ too tight. Ed had suggested pencilling on a little mustache to complete the look—Roy had threatened to let OL-31R loose on him.

 

Before they had left the ship, and begun heading for the Holy City, Ed had thought that if it was Roy’s intent that they look inconspicuous, he had failed spectacularly. However, now that they are among the crowd, Ed’s surprised just how well then blend in.

 

Ed supposes it makes sense, really. Jeddha being such a barren planet to begin with, it follows that its main population would be scavengers—geological thieves who never quite managed to make it off of this rock. It’s reflected in the very Holy City itself.

 

Every side-street is another flurry of activity; of fabric and intermingling languages and _color_.

 

The colors catch Ed’s breath and hold it just out of reach; as if to say ‘Oh look, _here’s_ what you’ve been looking for. Well, better not mess it up then, huh?’

 

Ed makes his token protests—mainly because they decided to leave the droid behind, and _someone_ needs to be irritating—but Jeddha’s Holy City is filthy, and crawling with Imperial troopers, and most likely half populated by criminals, but it’s _alive_. Ed would love to just get to lean against a wall and feel the city’s pulse—hear its heart beat all around him.

 

One look at Roy through the tinted glass of his goggles reminds Ed of his purpose here, and he reluctantly pulls his attention back to carefully following him through the crowd.

 

But when a small blind man calls out and says, “Wait. You, with the golden eyes.” Ed can’t help but turn in awe.

 

Ed knows of no other being in the galaxy with his eyes, besides the family he knows to be dead.

 

“Why are you here, young man?” Says the blind man, and Ed doesn’t even have the capability to answer.

 

Luckily, he doesn’t have to. Roy appears, and takes Ed by the arm, dragging him away. “Edward, please try not to get lost,” Roy hisses. “We aren’t here to make friends.”

 

Now it’s Ed’s turn to ignore Roy in favor of looking very deep in thought.

 

Had he just met a _Jedi_?

 

* * *

 

How they ended up in the middle of an armed conflict, Ed would never possibly be able to say. Ed only knows a few things right now. The first is that stromtroopers are shouting at someone besides them, and those someones almost certainly belong to Izumi Curtis. The next is by far the more jarring, and it takes a little more mental acrobatics to work his head around.

 

Ed had seen a child, alone among the debris and crying for her mother, and any rage or fear he _could_ have felt in that moment had all faded away in favor of an _empathy_ like he had never felt before. Memories of his brother—the family he had abandoned to go retrieve the father who decided to sell his soul once again to the kriffing Empire, only to find the scorch marks of blaster fire, and his mother's corpse when he went back—it all compelled him to move, without Ed even being conscious of it.

 

When Ed had come back to himself, a sniper rifle had been pointed at his head, and one of Izumi’s men had been behind the barrel.

 

Ed hasn’t ever really cared for irony.

 

To top the whole damn thing off, a blast had taken the gunman out, and Roy’s gun had been the one to fire it.

 

Of course, that had brought the fury of both sides of the conflict down on their supposed-to-be-inconspicuous asses, and now they’re flying through the Holy City while Ed goes through an existential crisis.

 

Why the hell would Roy _do_ that for him?

 

A small squad of stormtroopers rounds the corner; and Ed takes the opportunity to let out his frustration with relish. He steps out from behind Roy, steps up to the nearest trooper, and puts a blaster bolt through their brain. He picks up the riot club, and drops into a ready stance, waiting for the first one stupid enough to strike.

 

One finally comes forward, fists flailing like they’d never been in a fight in their life, and Ed allows himself to fall into the familiar rhythm of combat.

 

The obvious reason Roy would save him like that—a solid roundhouse kick to the solar plexus feels _fantastic_ to deliver, even if it takes a couple more hits to get the trooper down—and it’s that Roy needs him to complete the mission.

 

Two more plummet to the ground after a particularly well-placed shot—Ed allows himself to feel a small thrill of victory.

 

So yes, Roy needs him for entirely practical purposes. That’s the answer. The _correct_ answer.

 

So why is that not the answer he seems to _want_?

 

Ed can see Roy in his peripheral—tense like he _wants_ to be helping, but isn’t quite sure how. There’s no need—Ed downs the last stormtrooper with a shot to the knee and a strike of the club to the subsequently-exposed back of the head.

 

Of course, that’s when an entire new platoon arrives to the scene, and things go just a little to shit.

 

“We have you surrounded,” says the unit leader. “Put down your weapons, and put your hands up.”

 

Every instinct Ed has is screaming at him to _fight_ , there’s only thirteen of them, and the worst they’ll do is stun—the Empire will want answers for this sort of mutiny—but he _can’t_.

 

Ed spares Roy Mustang a glance out of the corner of his eye; torn disguise filthy from falling debris, and his stupid hair, and his stupid face set like stone. Damn it, this is why he works alone.

 

Blaster and riot club hit the ground, Ed staring through the visor of the unit leader’s helmet, and smirking with satisfaction as they shift uncomfortably. “Cuff them,” they order.

 

Then that crazy blind guy from before waltzes right in the middle of the square, and starts kicking stormtrooper ass, and Ed loses track of what’s happening where. All he knows is that there’s a whole lot of blaster fire—there’s a _sniper_ somewhere, but all they’re hitting is stormtroopers, so either they’re a trooper with a propensity for friendly fire, or they’re in cahoots with the awesome blind guy who may be a _jedi_ , and Ed has just decided not to worry about them. Ed’s strategy right now is ‘Don’t get shot.’ Somehow he and Roy have ended up back to back, and this could possibly be _teamwork_ , and just for that _ridiculous_ thought a stormtrooper gets blaster about three times after they’d been incapacitated.

 

The fight ends much sooner than Ed’s current emotional turmoil is prepared to deal with. Roy turns to face him, but Ed ignores him in favor of checking every downed trooper for a pulse.

 

Ed is so keyed up that when he feels a light touch to his shoulder, he has to physically keep his hand from breaking that offending appendage in four places—he _knows_ who it is, force-sensitive the guy may be, but he’s still blind, and therefore not the most sneaky.

 

“I’m sure that’s not necessary,” says the man as Ed reluctantly stands. “I think we got them all.” And then he smiles to _kindly_ that Ed can’t really find it in him to be grumpy anymore.

 

“I think you mean _you_ got’em all,” says Ed. “Thanks for your help back there—we’d have been smears on the wall without you.”

 

“I _helped_ ,” gripes a man who Ed can safely assume is the sniper. “Name’s Jean Havoc, that’s Kain Fuery; don’t let that little bastard take all the credit.”

 

Name exchanging shit. Well, whatever; his cover’s blown with the damn Rebel Alliance, for Force sake, might’s as well cut the bull. “Thanks to you, too, then. I’m Ed Elric, that stuffy one’s Roy Mustang.”

 

“Yes, you have our thanks,” says Roy, appearing out of _nowhere_ beside him, “but we really should be going, Edward.”

 

Ed sees a red dot land on Roy’s chest, and accepts his fate.

 

Kain Fuery folds his hands, pleasantly, and Ed realizes he probably knows too. Kriff, how perceptive _is_ this guy? “I don’t think that’ll be possibly, Mr. Mustang.”

 

Roy’s brow furrows—what a strangely attractive look on the guy who supposedly has all the answers; Ed hates it. “Wh—?”

 

Ed would’ve loved to continue this oddly satisfying line of conversation, but the square floods with stinging smoke in a familiar _crack_ , and Ed sets his weapon to the ground, carefully telegraphing every movement as troops are no doubt preparing to take them by force.

 

“ _Shit_ ,” Roy hisses, and Ed hears his blaster charging.

 

“ _Don’t_ , Mustang,” Ed hisses back, and grabs in his direction. He lands hold on an arm, tensed and flinching in Ed’s grip—Force, he hopes that’s Roy. “Trust me.” Then louder, he says, “My name is Edward Elric—I demand to speak to Izumi Curtis.”

 

Roy doesn’t do any shooting, and a part of Ed that he’s _ignoring_ right now is chirping happily that he’s been listened to, but he loses track of Roy when he hears the tell-tale sound of the butt of a blaster meeting the back of a head.

 

‘Well Force, I hope I know what I’m doing.’

 

* * *

 

Thankfully they keep Ed conscious. By the time he’s been cuffed and the smoke clears, he’s alone with a guard of four and being led to a transport that he hopes takes him to Izumi and not some pit of carnivorous beasts like on kriffing Tatooine.

 

He sits stock still, not fighting any order he’s given, and projects a practical expression of ease, but Ed’s mind is racing.

 

He’s _worried_.

 

If Izumi realizes who Mustang is… Despite what the fancy dressed Rebel Alliance representatives may say, there most certainly _is_ a civil war going on, and Izumi Curtis doesn’t keep prisoners of war.

 

Who is he kriffing kidding. Captain Mustang, Kain Fuery, Jean Havoc, they’re probably cooling off in a ditch outside the Holy City with holes in their heads—why is wasting valuable energy worrying about dead men?

 

The transport shudders to a stop, and his guards motion and inflect in their own language to imply that Ed’s supposed to get his ass moving.

 

He lets himself be lead blinking out of the dark transport and into the blinding Jeddha sun. It’s no surprise the Empire hasn’t been able to flush Izumi out yet—Jeddha’s landscape is a sea of the same warm-toned rock formations peaking out of the sand in every direction. He can see the Holy City, but the base is far enough away that it would take a _colossal_ fuck-up to lead the Empire to it without at least a year’s search.

 

Ed drinks in the harsh sunlight while he can. Funny the things you realize you’ve taken for granted after the stark boxes of Imperial cells.

 

He’s lead through a positively labyrinthian series of hallways—half of which he suspects are so he can’t find his way out again when he inevitably escapes—and then he’s in a large room with windows, and his guards beat a retreat, and Ed feels like a child again.

 

Izumi Curtis stands in front of him leaning on a lethal metal cane, and Ed remembers her explaining, with blood on her teeth and a rattling laugh, that she was dying, but it had never felt real until now.

 

“Edward?” she says.

 

Ed has heard horrified whisperings of the last survivor of the Old Religion, cloaked in death and his voiced labored by all the ghosts of his comrades, dead and gone by his own hand—he’s never had the misfortune of meeting the guy but he imagines the resemblance is uncanny.

 

He swallows, and tries to project more confidence than he has. “My favorite teacher!”

 

Izumi’s answering smirk is encouraging, but Ed also knows better than to trust the emotion she’s choosing to play. It had been her that had taught Ed to keep his cards close to his chest; both in life and Sabacc. “And my least favorite student.”

 

“Your _only_ student.”

 

“I rest my case.” She limps over to him, eyes going cold. “But let’s get to the reason you’re _actually_ here, ‘my favorite student.’ You finally following your old man’s footsteps and working for the Empire?”

 

And their facades fall away. “What the hell, Teacher, of course not,” Ed snarls.

 

Izumi snarls right back. “Well what am I supposed to think? The last I hear of you, you’re tucked away in _Wobani_ ; now, an Imperial defector comes knocking at my door, and not two days later you’re miraculously freed?” With every sentence she takes a limping step forward, and he cane’s vicious metal end chips at the soft red stone floor.

 

This is it. This is where he does what he was sent to do—this is where he very likely dies.

 

Refusing to be intimidated, Ed straightens, holds his ground, and says, “Yeah? Well last I heard of _you_ , I was alone, without a single weapon; without any _food_ —“ He’s supposed to be comforting, convincing, trying to get information, but almost a decade of rage and betrayal is simmering to the surface, and he can’t stop now.

 

Izumi looks, for a moment, stricken, and Ed takes it as a testament to how sick she really is—Izumi Curtis in her prime controlled every facet of herself like a damn Jedi—showing any sign of weakness then would have consigned her to an early grave.

 

“I was protecting you,” she says, finally. “The Empire was catching onto your true name—you never exactly were subtle.”

 

“If subtlety got you where you are today, then I’m glad I haven’t got it.”

 

“Low blow, Elric.”

 

“You _abandoned_ me!”

 

Force’s he’s in a screaming match with a dying woman. In the stricken silence that last statement earns him, Ed collects himself, and says, “The Empire didn’t send me, the Rebellion did. I get the intelligence, I’m free to go. Clean slate, all that shit.”

 

Izumi is subdued, but her whispered words dig between Ed’s ribs better than the screaming ever could. “So that’s it? You’re just going to walk away? Steal from me and disappear, leave everything you’ve ever believed in?”

 

“I don’t know _what_ I believe in, anymore,” says Ed, before he even knows the words are true.

 

Izumi looks at him like he’s both a stranger and a flea-ridden dog, unable to keep from biting his own skin, and Ed thinks it’s the first time he’s ever been able to read her. She pulls something from her robe, and hands it to him. He sees blood-stains on the inside of her sleeve—she’s coughing blood, now, then.

 

He takes it.

 

Kriffing hells, it’s a message.

 

“This message is from your father, Ed.”

 

Like that will make him want to do anything other than smash the damn thing.

 

“If he’s telling the truth, then you may be right to give up on the Rebellion after all.”

 

Reluctantly, Ed clicks the button, and starts the message.

 

* * *

 

“My name is Van Hohenheim. When the Jedi went extinct, and the Empire became what it is, I was working for the Galactic Senate. I created transports, irrigation, systems, and yes, weapons; used in the Clone Wars. And when the Senate was dissolved, there was no way for me to leave—I was forced to stay on and create their death machines, while my family was held as ‘incentive’ for my continued efforts.

 

“But finally, I was told to create something I could not take part in. A space station, as big as a moon, and capable of destroying worlds. They called it ‘the Death Star.’

 

“With the help of an old friend, Izumi Curtis, my family and I were able to escape. But we were found. I do not know what became of my wide and other son—I can hope that they are either dead, or free—because if they are in the Empire’s hands, I’ve surely spelled their doom with this scheme of mine.

 

“The Death Star was going to be completed, with or without me. When I chose to go back into work for the Empire, I knew what I had to do.

 

“I’m not a traitor, nor am I a murderer. I agreed to sell my soul to the Empire because I knew I was the only one who could stop them.

 

“I hid, deep, deep in the very skeleton of the Death Star, a vital weakness. There is a particle exhaust vent on the surface of the death star with direct, mainline access to the platform’s reactor core. One shot, and the entire system goes down.

 

“If you can find the rest of my family—if they’re still alive, please. Tell them what I’ve done. Don’t let them think of me as a traitor—I don’t think I could bear it.

 

“Trisha, Edward; I love you dearly.”

 

* * *

 

That _bastard_.

 

Once the punch in the gut that is hearing that voice around his mother’s name has numbed, no words can express the pure, unrelenting _rage_ that Ed feels, watching that kriffing video message. Of course his main concern is that they would think he’s some sort of _traitor_.

 

Like Ed ever gave a damn about that. Sure, he hates the Empire as much as everyone, but it’s not the Empire that left him on an uninhabited planet, alone, with his tiny shattered heart, a burning home, and his mother’s corpse, marred by more blaster fire than he had ever seen inflict a human body. That was all because of the selfish decision of one son of a bitch with a hero complex.

 

‘No one else could have done this?’ Bullshit. He could have told anyone of his disgruntled scientist buddies the plan, and gotten away scott free.

 

It hadn’t ever been about ‘the Rebellion’, it had always been about his _damn_ ego.

 

“Where is that bastard?” Ed asks slowly, just staring at the evidence of his father’s lethal arrogance.

 

“Ed,” says Izumi slowly, like she’s talking to a wounded kriffing animal.

 

“ _Do you know where he is_?” The words claw at his throat on the way up, in a way that has nothing to do with the way they still echo around the room.

 

Izumi never gets to respond. In the next moment, the entire world begins to shake, like some deity has picked it up and given it a good rattle.

 

“What?” Ed loons at the ground—sees little orange pebbles skitter across the floor. He looks up—the stone about them is riddled with hairline fractures. He looks out the window. “Oh hell.” Jeddha is slowly, steadily, turning itself inside out. The horizon lifts like an oncoming wave, and sand and plateau rise with it; teeth to gnash through the ground below.

 

“Kriff, we need to get out of here,” says Ed, stepping away from the window. He meets Izumi’s eyes, and is yet again able to read her like an open book. “Izumi…”

 

“Edward!”

 

Ed whips around as who should burst into the room but Roy Mustang.

 

He’s _alive,_ and Ed is hit by a distressing wave of relief—which quickly melts away, because he has chunks of debris in his hair and a bleeding shoulder, and the lower levels must already be gone.

 

Roy doesn’t stop running until he’s reached him, and they look each other over one moment, checking for any further injuries; he freezes, however, when he sees Izumi.

 

Izumi lets out a snort and rolls her eyes. “You kids be on your way, then—feel free to take one of our Imperial ships—it’s not like I’ll be using them.”

 

Ed takes a step towards her, knowing she’s made her decision, but it _hurts_ —“Teacher…”

 

“Get out of here, Ed.” Izumi coughs, faces the approaching horizon head on. “Just—do me a favor, and blow that damn thing up for me.”

 

Roy doesn’t have to drag Ed out of the base, like some emotional child, but he takes Ed’s arm in hand, and the touch isn’t unwelcome.

 

He calls OL-31R, who apparently is waiting outside with that Imperial transport, and Ed just focuses on one foot after another. He does not focus on the emblem of Izumi’s movement, painted on every wall and splintering apart as Jeddha crumbles; does not focus on the panicked scrambling of the damn around him; does not focus on the scream of a baby coming from some distant hall, or two beings in a corner, murmuring comforting words to one another in a language he doesn’t understand. He focuses on each individual footstep, because some voice, small and filled with the pain of seeing his mother dead and broken and never having said goodbye, of a brother who he never found among the debris, of a father who left him there for a purpose somehow grander than the continuation of his genetic material—the small, scared, lonely kid inside is sobbing, beating against his prison in the corner of his mind Ed has him stuffed away in, and begs him not to leave her behind; calls her Teacher and looks back, calling out to her and screaming how very _sorry_ he is, that he’s sorry for all of it.

 

Ed puts one foot in front of the other, because otherwise he’s be running right back.

 

He boards the transport. Holds on as Jeddha trues to swallow them whole. Is reminded that it wasn’t too long ago that he’d been wondering if death would really be so bad. Is inclined to agree.

 

* * *

 

They’re a long time in hyperspace before Ed is able to set Izumi aside. The only other being on the bridge is OL-31R, who doesn’t really need to be doing anything right now, but is grumbling to herself about incomplete calculations, and gratefully, paying Ed not a speck of attention.

 

When it had turned out that they _weren’t_ going to be crushed by hundreds of tons of revolting earth, Roy had breathed a sigh of relief, and something about the gesture had sparked a certain fond light in Ed, and they had looked in one another’s eyes, and yeah. That had definitely happened.

 

Ed realizes that now that he’s not quite so ‘paralyzed by grief’ and all that weak shit he should probably join Roy, touch base, talk about their next move, but damn it, they’d exchanged a _significant look_.

 

Mission shit probably takes priority over personal crises.

 

Whatever.

 

Ed finally manages to head down the ladder to the main body of the ship, safety doors opening and closing as he goes, and Ed gradually begins to hear the sounds of a conversation.

 

A conversation that has no possibly way of happening, given how he and Roy are the only organics on the transport.

 

Right?

 

“Ah, Edward Elric. I’m glad you could join us!” says Kain Fuery, polite and sunny as can be, and Ed missed the last rung of the ladder.

 

“Mustang?” Ed says, slowly, eyeing the ship’s extra, unexpected occupants.

 

“Present,” says the sassy bastard, and Ed sends a quick, yet scathing glare. Their company at the present consists of himself, Roy, Kain Fuery, Jean Havoc, and a kid huddled in the corner closest to Kain, trying to look small but also giving everything a defiant, suspicious gaze.

 

Ed shifts closer to Roy, and hisses, “Are you _actually_ an Alliance spy?”

 

Roy shrugs. “The proper term is ‘intelligence officer,’ but ‘spy’ will do in a pinch—makes me sound very mysterious.”

 

“Do most of your ‘intelligence’ missions end with us becoming _kidnappers_?”

 

“I did not _kidnap_ them,” says Roy, looking mildly affronted, but mostly just animated, which, great. At least _someone_ thinks kidnapping did freedom fighters and a damn _kid_ is humorous.”

 

“I came willingly,” Kain offers, helpfully. “So did Jean, but he won’t admit it.”

 

“I didn’t,” grumbles the actual child, as Havoc opens his mouth to most likely say much of the same.

 

Ed frowns. “You, kid—who the hell are you?”

 

“I’m the pilot,” he says.

 

“You’re the pilot—oh, _Force_.” Ed pinches the bridge of his nose, and groans. “Of course you are. What’s your name?”

 

“My what?” he says, tilting his head and letting dark blond hair fall across his eyes, and Ed has never hated the Empire more than in this exact moment.

 

“Yeah, your name—you know, the thing most cultures assign at birth? You’re no clone; we’re gonna drop you off at home on our way to wherever it is we’re going. So just tell me your name.”

 

The kid, who previously didn’t seem to know what to make of Ed’s line of questioning, hardens his expression, and says nothing.

 

Ed sighs. “Great. What’s his name?” he asks the room at large.

 

“He hasn’t told us, yet,” says Kain.

 

“All he’ll say is that he’s the pilot,” Havoc huffs.

 

“Well to be fair we never _asked_ ,” Kain points out.

 

“Kriffing—just tell me your name, kid!”

 

Finally, the kid straightens a little, letting himself out of the near-fetal position he’d been in moments before. “Designation TK-1004, from the planet Kamino—“

 

Ed barks out a laugh. “Nice try, kid. You ever seen a clone? They sure as hell don’t look like you. Try again.”

 

“...I...don’t have a name.”

 

“You’re a _terrible_ liar.”

 

Roy snorts next to him, cleaning off his blaster. Yhe kid looks him dead in the eyes, and stares for a good long while. Finally, he huffs, and says, “My name is Alphonse Elric.”

 

* * *

 

In his misspent lifetime, Ed has set up shop on more planets than he knows how to name. This is mostly because, growing up under Izumi’s wing, he had been dropped off for ‘secret missions’ with regularity—so secret not even he’d been allowed to know where they were.

 

But even after he’d gotten away from Izumi’s specific Rebellion, even when he’d been abandoned on yet another system no one had bothered to tell him the name of, with nothing more than a comm, a blaster, and the clothes off his krffing back, he’d kept up the world-hopping.

 

He hadn’t known how to live any other way.

 

And no matter how far we went—no matter what Outer Rim shithole he found himself haunting—that beach still followed him.

 

A child playing in the street becoming a stupid little kid, looking to his dad to fix it all—save the day. Every fire of a blaster was the shot that put a hole in his mother’s skull—every sleeping figure her freezing, stiff corpse.

 

But the one that stung the most—the one that played in the back of Ed’s mind every time he heard his kriffing _name_ —up in his cell and digging fingernails into flesh because it would _never be_.

 

For all those aborted reunion fantasies, all his speeches of apology and love and grovelling for forgiveness, he knew he didn’t deserve, when faced with eyes that Ed never realizes could _only_ be his, _of course it’s him_ —his throat lets out a weak little whine, and that’s all he’s going to be getting.

 

Al— _Al!_ his entire body sings—lets out a wondering, shuddering breath, and holds out his hands. Suddenly, Ed is very aware of the iron grip that is still holding him back, and _loathes_ it. The physical reassurance that this is _Al_ and not the Force pulling one last grand ‘Go to hell’ is suddenly all that Ed needs.

 

Roy must sense that, because the hands suddenly drop like Ed’s scalding to the touch, and Ed has never been exceptionally quick, but he has his arms crushing his little brother faster than it takes for his throat to incriminate him further with another wounded noise.

 

Al wraps around him like a great noodle creature, and Ed decides if this really is some Force mind-shit, he might not even be mad. “Brother,” says Al, the word suspiciously sob-like—Ed tenses an instinct. “I can’t—Dad said— _you were supposed to be_ —“

 

Hysterically, Ed thinks that Al’s voice is so different now, and he’s furious that he’d imagined it any other way.

 

“Hey,” he blurts out, like a fucking idiot. “Stop it with the crying shit. It’s contagious—you don’t want me embarrassing you in front of your new pals?”

 

Force, Brother,” Al chokes out a laugh—Ed can’t help but be overwhelmingly, insufferably pleased. “Please, _please_ just shut up.”

 

Ed’s never been happier to follow an order in his life.

 

“Well,” he faintly hears Havoc mutter to Fuery, “at least we know his name.”

 

* * *

 

“Absolutely not,” says Ed.

 

“Brother,” Al begins, with a sigh and Ed cuts him off before he can work any Force-magic.

 

“I kriffing said _no_. You just got away from those Republic bastards—I’m not just gonna watch you waltz right back into their open arms!”

 

Al glares—or, tries to glare. Seems that, for whatever kriffing reason, Ed seems to be having nearly the same effect on Al that he is on him—via wondering stares, unwillingess to argue, that dopey, fond expression.

 

Roy, however, seems majorly unaffected. Though Ed could care less about that bastard right now—Al’s bewitched him to the side of _lunacy_. “Ed, I know these new extenuating circumstances are surprising, but the Alliance is expecting information. If Alphonse has it, I need to hear him out.”

 

“Yeah, well I heard the same kriffing information; the Empire has a new planet-killing death machine—that’s probably what happened to Jeddha—and good old Dad put in a failsafe that can blow the whole thing up. Al is having _no_ part in this.”

 

“You don’t get to dictate that, Brother.”

 

Fuery leans into Jean. “Does this look as concerning as it sounds?”

 

“More,” Havoc grumbles.

 

“I think I kriffing _do—_ “

 

“Edward, what did you say about a failsafe?”

 

Ed shrugs Roy off. “Not kriffing now, Mustang—I can only deal with one brand of crazy at a time.”

 

Roy’s hand lays heavy on Ed’s shoulder. “If what you’re saying is true, Ed, I need to see that message.”

 

“Shut it for _one second_ , you—“

 

“ _Edward—_ “

 

“I don’t have it!”

 

Suddenly, the transport is silent—only the low thrum  of hyperspeed breaking through, and even that sounds accusatory at the moment.

 

Roy Mustang is smart, Ed knows this—knows he’d _have_ to be, to have gotten to where he is—and a very talented spy.

 

For the first time since his interrogation, Ed sees no emotion on that upsettingly handsome face—even a fake projection. He is unreadable. Ed tries to feel relieved.

 

Things were bound to fall apart. He’s glad it’s happening now, while Ed can see it, face to face.

 

“You...don’t have the message.”

 

“Yeah,” says Ed, “I watched it, but in the confusion on Jeddha...I must have forgotten.” It’s a lame kriffing excuse. He knows this. Is willing to face the consequences head-on.

 

But Roy doesn’t look angry. In fact, he runs a hand down his face, and for a fleeting moment seems conflicted. Troubled.

 

“So we’re just supposed to believe you?” says Havoc. Kain tuts lightly, but doesn’t argue.

 

“Pretty much, yeah,” Ed grits out. Turning back to Roy, he can’t help but glare. “I’m not kriffing _lying_ about a battle system that can _demolish planets_ , Mustang—you know that, right.”

 

Roy hisses. “It’s not _about_ me, Ed—it’s about the Council.”

 

“No.” Ed refuses to let Roy break eye contact—he moves, Ed kriffing follows. “No, it really kriffing is, _Captain Mustang._ I told you what I saw—what happened to trust?”

 

Roy doesn’t have a response for that one. A comm on the ship’s wall is beeping—Ed lets him go answer it. The growing distance feels like a breaking promise.

 

Al’s hand lays hesitantly on Ed’s elbow, and the contact is calm, reassuring, and yet Ed feels despondent because Ed’s right—Al was forced into service of the Empire at the age of five—he’s not going to be able to tell him what to kriffing do.

 

OL-31R leans her big robot head down into the carge hold and says “Are we done with our little human emotions now? Because we’re approaching Eadu and I’d love the fly-boy to guide us out of a crash leading to all our untimely demises.”

 

Ed follows Al up into the cockpit, and tries not to watch Roy talk, grim-faced, to the voice on the other line out of the corner of his eye.

 

* * *

 

After their transport falls from the sky over Eadu, Roy grabs a gun and Havoc, and heads out into the gloomy night to ‘survey the area’; jaw set and still refusing to look Ed in the eye.

 

He’s fine with that. Then again, Ed’s always been a proponent of the ‘ignore your problems until they either go away or come back to punch you in the throat’ approach. Too many things have been happening in his life lately that require his emotional investment, he’ll take any denial he can get.

 

Speaking of denial, Ed’s having a blast ignoring the fact that his father is here. On this planet. Presumably, they are currently breathing the same _air._ He’s thankfully pulled away from these disturbing discoveries when Al emerges from the shop’s gross, collapsing bowels, covered in oil and sweat like a beautiful machine baby, and he faces a whole _new_ set of emotional problems—one of them being that he can’t stop making disturbing metaphors.

 

“Well this thing’s scrap,” says Al, taking Ed’s hand that he had unconsciously held out, and hoisting himself up onto the floor. “Sorry about that—I hadn’t ever flown in from this way.”

 

“You fly into Eadu often, though?” Ed says.

 

Al smiles ruefully. “Yeah, actually. After we got...separated,” he says cheerfully, and doesn’t that just make Ed’s insides burn with a nice cocktail of self-hate and guilt, “I got forced into the Imperial Academy’s ranks; apparently I had ‘potential’. I knew what I was, though. I was insurance. So I played along, got into cargo piloting, flew wherever the higher-ups wanted me to, listened. Then, when I found out where Dad was stationed, I requested a route transfer. I delivered supplies to the scientific colonies on Eadu, and I got to _see_ him, Ed,” Al relays his story with such frankness. Ed wonders how he could possibly have not known this was his brother.

 

Ed’s got his own issues, but the fact that Al got to have some _family_ in their time apart settles one more ache in his twisted-up little heart.

 

“Force, Al,” he says, and is very proud the words don’t crack halfway out. “I’m so happy you found him. Course then that bantha shit went and involved you in his scheming, so—“

 

“You know I had to.” Al says, his face reading less angry disappointment and more growing understanding. “You of _all_ people know I had to do it.”

 

“Six sith hells, Al, no you didn’t! You had a good thing going; you could have requested another transfer, gotten out of here—I may not like the guy, but I know Dad tried to make you.”

 

“I could say the same thing to you, Brother.”

 

The words are spoken with the same rigid finality that he’s come to recognize from Mustang—even Fuery—and all Ed can really do is groan. “We really are a family of self-sacrificing assholes, aren’t we.”

 

Al smiles, and Ed’s not Force-sensitive but he can feel the entire planet beneath him give a pleased little sigh. “What can I say; it’s in the genes.” Al leans against a wall that _wasn’t_ bent in the crash, and says, “What about you, Brother? What stupidity do I have to yell at you for for getting into _this_ mess?”

 

“Well see, there was this prison—“ Ed begins, and cherishes Al’s look of resigned horror even after he’s been interrupted by the sudden appearance of OL-31R and Kain Fuery from the cockpit.

 

“So sorry to break up the reunion but we have a bit of a situation,” drawls the robot, and Ed’s trigger finger itches.

 

“What, you running low on batteries? Because, oh, what a crying shame, they all disappeared in the crash.”

 

“Impudent organic—“ seethes the droid, but she’s cut off by Kain.

 

“I’m afraid Captain Mustang may not have been completely honest about his intentions for leaving the crash site.”

 

Al’s eyes narrow. “They have been gone a very long time…”

 

* * *

 

Ed reaches the landing platform just in time to watch everything go to hell.

 

He sees his father, the man he’s reviled for more of his life than he’s even _known_ him, step out in front of a group of people. And then he sees him talk to some Imperial nutjob. And then he sees him blow up.

 

“Kriffing hell,” he murmurs, and dives for cover. The entire platform is aflame, he can’t even bear to look at the bodies, scattered by the blast, and the _smell_ , oh Force—

 

The Imperial steps onto his ship, and flies away, leaving smoking ruins of people who dedicated their lives to work for the Empire in his wake.

 

Ed steps out and looks for the man that was his father, so long ago, before beaches and the rest of the world changed that forever.

 

Force, Hohenheim is burning, he’s _burning_ —Ed’s hands barely feel a thing as they numbly stamp out the smoldering cloth on Hohenheim’s back, turns him to see shattered spectacles and gold eyes that are bloodshot and weak but _open_ and hers a voice long forgotten whisper in disbelief, “Edward?”

 

Something inside of Ed shatters.

 

“ _Dad_ ,” he sobs, gently lifting mangled glasses from his father’s face and smoothing golden hair, now graying with age and ash.

 

“My boy, my Ed, my little boy…” Hohenheim’s hands streak blood down Ed’s face—it mixes with the tears that just won’t stop.

 

“I found it Dad. I found your message,” he says, frantically.

 

“We’re gonna take those bastards down for everything they’ve done, for what they did to us.”

 

Hohenheim’s eyes are glazed—oh Force, why did he ever come up to this platform?—and he smiles, saying “Of course you are. My brave boy.”

 

There has been more time spent in Ed’s life resenting this man than loving him, and yet…

 

And yet inside of Ed, there’s still a little boy, left alone to hide for hours and hours while he heard blasterfire, screams, and the deadly, agonizing silence—who sat alone and crying and murmured “It’s okay, Daddy’s coming, Daddy’ll fix this.”

 

That child sits in front of Hohenheim’s broken body as the light fades from his eyes, and says, “I love you, Dad.”

 

And with Hohenheim, that child dies.

 

A ship descends at the end if the platform. A voice frantically beckons. A hand grabs at his shoulder, a distant shout through thick fog says “I’m sorry Edward, I’m so sorry, but we have to go.”

 

There’s almost nothing left but ashes now. The Empire’s fire has reduced everything left to char and smoke.

 

Ed goes.

 

* * *

 

Ed doesn’t know how long it is until he’s ready to talk. He knows that many people try—Roy and Al and Fuery and even OL-31R—and he knows that Al’s sitting with him now, pulling him into a comforting embrace with Ed’s head on his shoulder.

 

When he finally speaks, Ed says, softly, “I’m sorry.”

 

Al makes a hushed noise of confusion, and responds, “Now why would you be apologizing?”

 

“Because I let him die.” Because he let _them_ die, both father _and_ mother, worthless son that he is.

 

“You only let him die if you could have saved him, Ed,” Al says, and Force, Ed had hoped he would have grown out of that dangerous kindness of his. “You couldn’t have done anything, Ed. I’m just happy you’re here and breathing.”

 

“But you knew him longer than I did.”

 

“We always knew what we were doing was dangerous. We both prepared for the consequences.”

 

“Then why didn’t you try to get away?”

 

“Because what we were doing was worth the danger.”

 

* * *

 

Roy is in the cockpit when Ed comes looking for him. Alone. OL-31R must be off bickering with the old couple.

 

He doesn’t seem to notice when Ed steps inside.

 

“I wanted to thank you,” Ed says.

 

Roy jumps, coughs—it’s obvious he’d been falling asleep.

 

A faint smile ghosts across Ed’s lips.

 

“Whatever for?” Roy says, all soft and smooth, as he turns in his chair.

 

Ed snorts. “For getting me off that platform for starters.” Roy starts to protest, but Ed cuts him off. “Honestly, I don’t know what I’da done otherwise, so. Thanks.”

 

Roy nods. How do you say “You’re welcome” to someone whose life you just saved, Ed wonders. Just say “Think nothing of it!” and move on? So he presses on.

 

“And also, thanks for not following your orders.”

 

Roy looks taken aback by that, but also...relieved.

 

“I know you were ordered to off him; _I_ would’ve ordered you to, so just, thanks.”

 

There’s a very long silence. Ed does not notice the sleep lines on Roy’s face, or the way his eyes crinkle when he’s thinking.

 

Instead of replying, Roy eventually says “We’re headed back to base. I’m going to tell the Alliance about your father’s plan.”

 

“Hell yeah. Let’s take those sons of bitches down.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry gentlemen, but it’s simply impossible.”

 

“Pardon?” says Roy, blinking.

 

“Ex-kriffin-scuse me?” says Ed.

 

The dignitary’s eye twitches. “There’s no possible way that the Alliance can work with such flimsy information. Not only do we not have intel on the Empire’s supposed superweapon, but we have _no_ proof of your father’s failsafe, Mr. Elric. Certainly not enough to risk Alliance soldiers at this crucial juncture.”

 

Various Alliance leaders grumble in agreement. Roy’s shifting back into the emotionless soldier, his back stiffening.

 

No.

 

Ed’s not going to take this.

 

“I hope you’re kriffing proud of yourselves,” he grits out. “The kriffing Rebel Alliance, getting information that could take the Empire out of commission, and you can’t what? Risk the _resources_ ? My father dedicated his life to this, my brother stayed under the Empire’s heel to insure this plan’s success, but no, it’s too _risky_ . I hope you can face yourselves tomorrow. I hope you can face your children, and tell them they might still be at war when they’re grown up because you didn’t want to _risk_ something. Isn’t this whole grand idea one big risk? Rebellions are built on hope, and if yours is crumbling, then maybe step aside and let someone more qualified take your seat, because you aren’t what this damn movement needs. There’s a place where the Empire keeps their building plans—I’m gonna find it, I’m gonna send those plans outta there myself, and then let’s hope that you’re willing to _risk the resources_ to blow those bastards out of the sky.”

 

Ed has no more to say to these spineless excuses for revolutionaries. He turns his back on the Rebel Alliance, and storms out.

 

* * *

 

“Al, you can’t come.”

 

“Brother, I’d like to remind you that I don’t need your permission.” Al stands resolute in the entrance of the ship Ed had been about to jack, and the expression on his perfect face is painful as it is endearing. On any other day, at any other time, Ed would have crumbled then and there, but this is different.

 

There’s no way. This is a suicide mission, Ed is definitely going to die, and there’s no way in the six Sith hells he’s pulling Al down with him.

 

“Al…”

 

“I’m not leaving this ship brother. You can’t make me.”

 

“Then I’ll steal another one!”

 

“And I’ll board that one too! I can’t let you do this alone, why don’t you see that?”

 

“I’m not going to lost you again, kiddo; I need you _safe_.”

 

Fury flashes in Al’s eyes. “And what makes you think I can afford to lose _you_ , Brother? That these last years without you haven’t been _empty_? We go together, or not at all.”

 

Damn it.

 

Alphonse has always had Ed wrapped around his little finger.

 

But not this time. Even if Ed has to lie, Alphonse is going to be _safe_.

 

Reluctantly, almost against Ed’s will, his voice croaks, “We’re probably gonna die, you know that?” and lets Al think what he will.

 

The smile on his brother’s face is more bitter than sweet. “What makes you think I would ever want to live without you?” The guilt sitting in Ed’s stomach is lead.

 

“Well isn’t this touching.” Ed and Al whip toward the source of the robotic voice, Ed’s hand itching for his blaster. OL-31R doesn’t react, just puts a hand on her metal hip. “Oh dear, did I spoil the mood?”

 

“For the Force’s sake, have tact Olivier,” say Roy from out of the corner of Ed’s eye, and oh, he’s being followed. After the initial burst of fondness, Ed remembers that he’s been about to steal a Rebel spy transport, and pulls out his blaster. “You got company, Mustang?” he asks, surreptitiously taking a step between them and Al—he doesn’t miss his brother’s eye-roll.

 

Roy, curse him, just laughs, and for unrelated and unknown reasons Ed’s internal organs turn to goo. “Let’s just say that your _unorthodox_ delivery manages to be quite convincing.”

 

What.

 

Wait.

 

_What_?

 

“You mean…”

 

“Just let us on the ship already!” Havoc calls, then yelps as Fuery whacks his shins.

 

“We’re with you, Ed,” says Roy. The group behind him, people who he’s never even met, whose names he’ll never know, who have family and friends and children, oh Force, what is he even doing.

 

Al moves Ed out of the way of the transport door; people begin filing in, talking among themselves—Fuery pats his arm in sympathy as he passes.

 

Suddenly Roy stands in front of him, gently taking his hand and softly saying, “You didn’t think we’d let you do this alone, did you?”

 

It takes a moment for Ed’s mouth to remember how words work.

 

“So just to be clear… you’re _not_ here to arrest me?”

 

Both Al and Roy burst into laughter, and sure they’re all gonna die, but at least they’ll die together.

 

* * *

 

Al is getting to know a few of the volunteers, and Ed just can’t bring himself to put names to these damned faces, so he’s just standing off to the side, leaning against the wall and watching, when Fuery comes up to him.

 

He also leans his back against the transport wall, rests his hands on his staff, and says, “You seem to be coming to terms with something over here.”

 

Ed guffaws in surprise. “Yeah, I guess you could put it that way.”

 

Fuery’s silence screams expectance.

 

Ed groans.

 

“You’re right, you’re always...mostly right. I guess, so much of my life has been spent alone, even when I was with Izumi it always felt like she was...somewhere else? Somewhere I could never reach.”

 

Fuery hums.

 

“And now, I’m not? And it’s happening right before I’m going to die, and I just can’t help but think, why _now_?”

 

“I understand,” says Fuery. “Jean and I found one another long ago, but it’s only been two years since we truly _found_ each other.”

 

Well isn’t that the saddest thing to ever sock him in the face.

 

“And for quite a while, I had...regrets. I felt that I had wasted our time together, by living in fear and not letting what I knew to be true show. When I revealed these regrets, Jean of course wouldn’t have it. And he helped me see that no time together is too short, no love wasted. Love is the connection of souls, and each connection—however brief—is to be treasured.”

 

Fuery pulls away from the wall, and his staff knocks Ed’s shins. “Treasure your connections, Elric.” And he walks away, presumably to go bicker with his husband.

 

Ed sends Al one last fond glance, and makes up his mind.

 

* * *

 

It takes two seconds of stomping around the transport to run face-first into Roy Mustang. And given the “running into” is no exaggeration, they both stumble and let out various expletives in the immediate aftermath.

 

“Terribly sorry, Edward—“

 

“You _should_ be; what’re you thinking, zipping around here like you own the place?”

 

Ed’s amazed that he ever could have thought of these eyes as “cold.” Roy’s expression is faux-stern, but his eyes give it away.

 

“Well, if we were being technical, I _am_ the highest ranking Alliance officer aboard—therefore, it could be said that I _absolutely_ own the place.”

 

“But it was mine first—I started stealing it before you even showed up.”

 

“Ah, pardon me; see, I believe I was staging a coup at the time.”

 

“Excuses, excuses. That’s all there ever is from you, huh?”

 

“Is it truly an excuse when it’s the truth?”

 

“In the end, all you ever have on your side is wordplay, don’t you.”

 

Roy’s smile turns bittersweet. “Yes. ‘In the end.’”

 

Of course they both know they’ve nearly reached their “in the end.” Roy may very well have once been a wide-eyed rebel, but something in the lines around his mouth and the calluses on his hands tells Ed nothing but a realist remains.

 

“We’ve had a good run, haven’t we?” says Ed.

 

“That we have,” says Roy. He pauses. Ed realizes that they never stepped away from one another, and Force, how looking up to meet someone’s eye had never made him _less_ angry… “Listen, Edward, I…”

 

“Mustang, get your ass up here, we’re coming into orbit!” OL-31R booms.

 

There’s something close to reluctance in Roy’s eyes. Ed smiles. It’s not like it really needed to be said, anyway. Warm fondness floods back into Roy’s eyes, even as they harden with resolve, and Roy finally steps away.

 

Ed goes to find Al. He needs to have a very unpleasabt conversation.

 

* * *

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

Ed scrapes a hand over his face and sighs. “Al…”

 

“Don’t _Al_ me, Brother—we’ve already had this conversation. _I’m going with you_.”

 

“You went with me, Al!” Ed shoves a finger toward a window. “Congratulations, you’re in enemy space! But someone needs to stay up here, with the ship, to receive the plans if… _when_ we beam them up!”

 

“Then have someone else do it,” Al hisses. “I’m staying with you. I can help, I know Scariff like the back of my hand.”

 

“Think about it, Al. There are two people on this ship who can fly an Imperial transport—Roy, and you. Someone needs to get this hunk of junk back to the Alliance after it receives the plans!”

 

“Then Roy will stay!”

 

Ed shakes his head. “Al, someone had to lead this suicide mission. I’m not qualified, Fuery and Havoc certainly aren’t—it has to be Roy.”

 

“Brother…” Al’s voice is heavy with rage, but he chokes on a sob. Ed pulls his brother to him, the years not fading muscle memory of comforting after a nightmare, soothing a scraped knee, protecting from monsters under the bed. Al goes without protest, but tears wet Ed’s shoulder.

 

“I know we’re working for a great cause here,” Ed breathes into the precious crown of his precious brother’s head, “but you know that everything I’m doing today, I’m doing for you. I’m going to make the universe a better place because you’re in it, Al. What use is the damn universe without you?”

 

Al’s shoulders shake. “I hate you, Brother.”

 

Ed’s eyes close, and he smiles. “Yeah.”

 

Their little resistance boards one of the transport’s escape pods, and the transport stays behind, floating, lonely, above Imperial space, waiting to receive the plans.

 

Al stays with it.

 

* * *

 

Fuery and Havoc say goodbye when a trooper notices the Rebel intrusion and calls for backup. Ed knows that it’s for the last time.

 

* * *

 

While a battle rages outside, Roy, OL-31R, and Ed reach the object of their mission. A big kriffing room with a big kriffing tower of identical Imperial architectural blueprints.

 

“You’ve gotta be _kriffing_ kidding me.”

 

Roy seems to agree with Ed’s sentiment, but, being the optimist of the two, he turns to OL-31R, and asks her if she would take control of the tower.

 

“Not as though I have many other options,” she says, as she lumbers over to the control deck.

 

That’s when there’s a banging at the blast door.

 

“Shit,” says Ed, and he reaches for his blaster.

 

“What are you standing around for, you useless fauna?” says Olivier. “Get in there!”

 

And that’s the last time Ed is insulted by a robot.

 

* * *

 

Ed’s reached the transmitter, Roy’s covering him from behind, and an Imperial in white steps out from the shadows.

 

“I should have known you would have crawled out of whatever hole we left you in, Edward Elric,” says smugly the bastard who shot Ed’s mother, and he had a blaster bolt in his face before he can take another breath.

 

Ed finally reaches the transmitter, plugs in the plans, and thinks, “There, Al. Now give’em hell.”

 

A battered hand takes his, and Ed looks up to see the bruised, bloodied face of Roy Mustang, and those stupid, wonderful, warm eyes.

 

“You did it,” he says, and it sounds as though all the love and joy in the universe were crammed into those three syllables. The sun sears his aching skin, the air is thick with battle dust and the coppery taste of blood, and all Ed can think is that he sure is happy he’s not stuck in a cell.

 

“Yeah,” Ed says, and hopes is one word will do.

 

* * *

 

There’s no point in trying to escape; there never was. All of the Imperials except that dead bastard have fled in their transports, something’s coming, and there’s not even a ship to steal. But still they stagger out of the compound, because Ed will be damned if he dies in an Imperial building.

 

So they flee as far as they can go supporting one another, Roy’s leg with a gaping hole in it and Ed’s ribs cracked and splintered.

 

And they reach the water.

 

And as a sickly green light blots out the sky, Ed sits at the edge of the water and feels the sand on his feet and he thinks about beaches and fate.

 

Roy near collapses next to him, but Ed catches him—nevermind that stinging fire shoots through his veins as he holds Roy to his chest.

 

“Edward…” Roy gasps, blood loss creeping to his mind, now. “Edward, we’re—“ and he looks to the approaching light.

 

“We are,” says Ed. “But all things considered, I think there’s worse things I can do than die with Roy Mustang.”

 

The depth of feeling in Roy’s eyes—damn his stupid eyes—is terrifying. “And I with you, Edward,” he says, with no hesitation.

 

In this man’s arms, Edward Elric meets death’s eye, and on a beach both here and decades ago, comes to terms with fate.

 

* * *

 

The Rebel guard raises her gun, panic roaring in her ears as the cloaked invader draws slowly closer. “I’m warning you,” she says, putting her finger to the trigger of her blaster, “put your hands in the air, or I’ll shoot.”

 

Obediently, they raise their hands. But in one…

 

She tenses. “What the hell is that?”

 

They lower the hood of their cloak, and in all her years all she’ll remember of him is his sad, golden eyes as he looks at her, and says, “Hope.”

**Author's Note:**

> this is far from my best work, but i’ve been going through a lot recently, and getting anything written has been a really big struggle for me, so i’m honestly just ecstatic that i’m posting something, haha
> 
> be gentle, lovelies.


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